An Artist's Impression
by Rosie eisoR
Summary: A Volney Rain oneshot, set just before ROTG, featuring puppy love, and an impression of the Daine and Numair relationship.


"Good morning, Daine." 

She glanced up as she passed, and rewarded him with a smile. "Morning."

He resisted the temptation to sigh, and returned to the careful outline of a daffodil, the last part of his spring display. For some reason, he found himself unable to concentrate. No, not for some reason. He knew the reason, like he knew every inch of her perfect, heart-shaped face. Every time she had passed him, he had cherished her smiles, like he treasured that morning's, and every time he watched her slender form until it vanished from sight.

He had feigned an artist's interest in her – not an implausible idea. When she was dressed up, none could guess her humble origins. Brown hair flowed down her back in curls, her blue-grey eyes were soft and sympathetic, and she had a smile for everybody. But his real interest in her was deeper than a mere appreciation of her beauty, though he would never dare to tell anyone. He had seen the way the young men fawned over her. This was part of the reason he hadn't yet approached her – another part being her treatment of them. Oh, no harsh words fell from her lips, but he would rather suffer his infatuation in silence than be humoured in the same way. So, spring passed into summer, summer fell into autumn, and still he kept his promise to himself.

He hadn't caught a glimpse of her in nearly a month, though. Word had it that she was sick with a fever. Of course, palace rumour also had her abed with her teacher and the castle mice.

He drummed his fingers on the table, staring at the unfinished face in earnest. The whole painting was flat and uninspiring, like that of a beginning artist. It showed none of the personalities or the closeness of the family. Not even the prestigious Naxen account could distract him from thoughts of Daine. He would have to find out what had happened to her.

Numair, that was it. He could ask Numair where she had vanished to.

As luck would have it, Numair was in residence, and in his rooms; a fairly rare occurrence. He looked vaguely dishevelled, although_ that_ was not particularly unusual.

"Volney," he greeted the artist, thin smile not distracting from the shadows under his eyes. "What can I do for you?"

Volney hesitated and glanced past the mage, ensuring he wasn't interrupting any spells or anything of a less – savoury manner. Numair Salmalín was notorious for his skills with magic, and with women. Volney thanked Mithros that Daine was too young, or else she might have fallen prey to this renowned womaniser. Not that Master Numair wasn't a perfectly charming, sensitive individual regarding any matter that wasn't of the night before variety.

"I was – ah, that is to say, myself and – and some of the other artists were – uh – commenting just the other day on the absence of Miss Daine, you see, and-"

The darkness under Numair's eyes deepened. "Ah. Yes. Daine." He shuffled his feet, and for a fleeting moment, Volney thought that they must have had a row, or something. "Unicorn fever," he answered finally. "Better, now Baird's back, but still. Recovering, slowly."

Perhaps if Volney's mind had not been so concentrated on such aesthetic pleasantries such as the way the light fell across the spinning prisms in the centre of the room, and the richly patterned rug, he would have noticed the strain in the older man's voice, and the absence of complete sentences in a man noted for his love of vocabulary. However, the part of his attention that was not focused on the draping of the curtains was registering the fact that the rumour about the mice apparently wasn't true. "Give Miss Daine my - _our_ regards," he told Numair. "I'll go tell the – the other artists." He set off down the corridor, ready to contemplate Katerina's dainty features once more.

* * *

He had become so engrossed with his portrayal of the beautiful Lady Cythera that, at first, he hadn't noticed his name being called. It was only after a hand had been waved over Sir Gareth's completed face that Volney was alerted to the presence of somebody else in the room.

"So, I suppose the question now is, what can I do for you?" Volney asked, offering the mage a bright smile.

Numair's face was haggard, clearer by the lighting in Volney's rooms. "I-" He paused, sensitive mouth tightening in a way the artist itched to commit to paper. He stilled his hand and waited, patiently. The black robe's eyes had settled on the Naxen family, as if he expected their painted mouths to finish the sentence for him. "Ah... I mean..." He trailed off, looking faintly embarrassed in a way an esteemed mage should be above. He pulled a locket out of one of his pockets and offered it to Volney. "Would you be able to paint a – a picture to fit in here?"

Volney examined it. "Of course," he replied, easily, confidently. "Which lucky lady is it of?"

Numair stiffened, giving the young artist the sensation that he'd said something horribly wrong. He hoped it wasn't wrong enough to get him turned into a pot plant. "Daine."

Volney's insides were beginning to squirm unpleasantly, but he made himself ask, "And is this a surprise present for her?"

"No," Numair said shortly, throwing Volney a disgusted look. "It's for me."

"Ah."


End file.
